Love Kills
by marypussycat79
Summary: Set after the movie "Game of shadows". Watson develops a power after a deathly experience and Holmes want to prove his theory to solve a case... RD as Holmes/J as Watson
1. Chapter 1

**LOVE KILLS (chapter one)**

WATSON'S POV (FROM THE DOCTOR'S DIARY)

Death does not affect me anymore. As a physician, I am used to see various illnesses and too often I can do nothing but offer some help to ease the pain when there is nothing else to do. As a soldier, I have seen many friends fall to the ground. I don't know how I survived the Midway battle, but I did and the things I have seen were enough to drive a man crazy, but my mind is still working well. It could seem I am an insensitive man; truth is my work requires steady nerves and besides it, if I would have abandoned myself to emotions, I would had never done it. I managed to survive and I came back to London determined to go on with my life and to actually have a life instead of becoming an empty shell full of sad memories and live in the streets, like many veterans are. Don't make me wrong, I understand they have every right to behave that way, I just don't think that it would be MY thing: I needed to work and I needed a home and I found them in Baker Street. Being involved in Holmes "investigation activity", I have seen many corpses and I can affirm I have been very efficient in my work: autopsy and so on. What I cannot understand is why some people are kind and gentle to others while others' only desire is to hurt other human beings. My explanation is that some people are unlucky: they have no parents nor anybody who cares for them, they live in the streets and they became criminals in order to survive the cruelty of life. But there are other persons who are educated men, they have money and they live a good life with all the comforts and yet they are cruel and violent and they not care for human life. That was the case of Lord Blackwood, for example. Generally, these thoughts occur only when I have had too much wine and I am in a dark mood.

That afternoon, I was enjoying my free time reading the last novel of my favorite author when Lestrade came to our apartment: they found another corpse and they believed it was the forth homicide of a serial murderer who started his activity a few weeks before. I asked about Holmes and the inspector told me he was already at the crime scene. When we arrived, I found the place someway familiar, but I had never been in that part of London before. We were near the docks, in a dirty warehouse that seemed abandoned. Holmes was in the far corner, knelt down beside a still figure. He lifted the sheet that covered the body and I saw the beautiful face of a young lady, with long lashes and porcelain skin, dark long curly hair and a small cute nose above a perfect mouth; she wore a light brown dress that suited her very well, her arms resting besides her waist. With eyes closed, she seemed asleep if not for the blue tint coloring her lips and the deathly pallor. Her body was untouched, the only marks of violence were the red skin and some bruises on her neck, where the rough hands of the murderer had taken life away from her. I knelt down beside the young woman, feeling a sort of déjà-vu: her face was familiar but I could not remember where or when I met her. When I did touch her cold skin, the sensation intensified. I spent some time examining her and when I finished I covered her back with the sheet. The loss of physical contact with her dead body gave me a strange sensation and when I stood up I was assaulted by a sudden dizziness; luckily I was able to regain my equilibrium without being noticed by anyone, except for Holmes, who gave a me a concerned look and ask me if I was alright. I reassured him and then informed him and Lestrade about my conclusions.

"She was strangled, that is certainly the cause of the death. There are no sign of fight on her hands or arms or anywhere, no tissues under her nails, probably she knew her murderer and she was not afraid of him because she did not fight him. The way she was laid down indicates a certain care from the murderer towards her. She was probably killed 10-12 hours ago. Do you know her name?"

"We don't know yet. So, when are you going to do the autopsy?" Lestrade asked then.

At the word "autopsy" I felt my stomach tighten. Such a beautiful girl, why should I do that to her? But, did I have a choice? It was my work after all and besides, if I would not do it, someone else would, so I decided to be reasonable and help her in the only way I could. I knelt down again beside her and caressed her soft skin, murmuring that she did not have to worry and I would had taken care of her. I don't know what Lestrade or Holmes thought seeing me like this, I don't know if they heard me actually speaking to her, I knew I was behaving strangely but I could not help it. Anyway, when I told them I would had done my work on her the next they both men seemed satisfied. Holmes spent some time examining the crime scene and I followed him but I was lost in my thoughts and I guess I was not paying attention to what he was saying, because at some point he became silent and watched me as he was expecting an answer. When I did not comply he came closer to me and put his hand on my shoulder causing me to yelp in surprise.

"Watson, are you sure you feel alright? You are acting quite strange!" he asked.

How could I explain him the mixture of emotions I was experiencing at the moment? How could I explain him I have been touched by a dead girl and I wanted to protect her? Truth was I knew I was behaving like a fool and I did not know the reason myself. But I could not take her out of my mind.

"I feel fine, Holmes. But, if you don't mind, I have some things to attend before heading home, so if you don't need me…" I asked, hoping he would drop the matter. He did and I was immensely grateful for it. I needed some time alone to clear my mind.

"Sure, Watson, there's no need for you to stay. I will see you later, then!" Holmes said, turning his attention back to the warehouse. I left him and Lestrade talking.

I went home (I did not have anything to attend, I just needed an excuse to leave Holmes!) and I tried to think rationally to what had happened. I came to the conclusion I have been so involved because the girl was about the same age as Mary when I first met her and she had the same thin aspect. In a few days it would had been the anniversary of her death and the event always affected me, even if I had accepted it rationally. This explanation was reasonable and I felt proud of myself. Anyway, I felt the desire to be alone and when Holmes returned I pretended to have an headache and retired in my room. He seemed lost in his investigations and did not commented.

That night, I had trouble sleeping. The book I was reading was not particularly interesting so I fell asleep early in the evening. I woke up at 2 o'clock in the morning after a bad dream that I could not remember but it left me exhausted. I closed my eyes again only to be caught by the same nightmare again and again until I decided to call it a day, something around half past four in the morning. I went downstairs in the sitting room and I reported the events of the previous day on my diary, then waited for the day to come. I left Baker Street very early, Holmes was still sleeping in his bedroom, or so I assumed.

I entered the autopsy room holding my breath, I was extraordinarily nervous; I approached the table where the girl's body had been placed and gently lifted the sheet covering her. Then with trembling hands I removed his clothes and put them in a bag for Lestrade, for her dress and everything I would had found on her were evidences. Her cold soft skin felt like silk under my hands. I worked hard to remain lucid and started to count mentally every step of the work I had to do. I examined her carefully to find any particular sign the murderer could had left, but she was immaculate. I was relieved to certify that she had not been raped. I took some notes and then I put on the gown, gloves and mask before starting the hard part of the work. I did what I needed to do and then, when it was over, I used particular care to stitch her because I did want her to be as beautiful as she was before my operation. I bent down to caress her and to assure her it was over and she was safe before covering her again and let her go, it was useless and damn foolish but no one was watching me and I thought it was an innocent gesture, after all.

Then something happened and I still cannot find a rational explanation for the events I am going to tell, I came to the conclusion I was feverish or sick. I caressed her skin for the last time and I felt like falling into her and my mind was assaulted by images of her living her life, I felt what she had felt, I saw faces and places following one another and last I felt someone holding me tight with hands around my throat and the horrible sensation of being choked. Then, as sudden as it came, the sensation disappeared, leaving me sweating and trembling. I am not ashamed to admit it, I was shocked. It took me a few minutes to calm down , then I left the autopsy room and the mysterious young lady.

I decided the episode would not had influenced my life and to leave Holmes out of that story, so I made my report and handed it to Lestrade. I resumed my daily life at the consulting room and I kept my mind busy. After some days, I was feeling a lot better.

Until another body was found..**.**

**TO BE CONTINUED IN CHAPTER 2...**

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	2. Chapter 2

**Love kills (chapter 2)**

WATSON'S POV (FROM THE DOCTOR'S DIARY)

I have to come back some days before the discover of the fifth corpse to make you better understand my personal situation. As I have already explained, that time of the year was difficult for me because exactly three years before my Mary left me after a long illness. I had to face her family and in particular her father, who accused me not to have helped her and actually told me I have never been a good husband to her because of my hanging around with Sherlock Holmes. I was too shocked and too empty to reply to him, I simply did not have the strength to argue with him nor to do much of anything. When the funeral was over and Mary's parents left London to return home, I spent four weeks in our home without going out, my appetite was lost and I eat that little something just to be alive to grieve my wife. I deliberately did not touch her things because I did not want to be separate from her: seeing her belongings in our house was someway comforting; I kept talking to her like she was still alive; I spent most of the nights awake and slept through the days. I left my patients at the consulting room without an advice. At some point I felt so empty and so alone I decided it was time for me to reach her because I had no reason to live after her. I thought about it for some days, deciding what was the best solution for the problem: I had a revolver, I could had easily shot myself in the head, but when I tried my hands were shaking too much and I had to give up. I thought about hanging myself to one of the beams of the kitchen, but at the end I assumed the best solution, being a physician, was taking two entire bottle of pills I had in my bag. I decided the day, I made sure the door and the windows were properly closed, I did not waste time writing a letter and I made myself comfortable on the couch in our sitting room, pitcher of water and bottles of pills on the table: at the beginning, I was nervous but I soon relaxed and when the pitcher and the bottles were empty I waited for the drowsiness to come. I slipped in the darkness and I felt relieved, but what I saw was not what I had expected: I thought Mary would had welcomed me but when I looked at her she was sad and crying; I asked her why and she replied she would had loved to stay with me again and forever, but it was not time yet and I had to come back. I fought with all my strength to convince her of the contrary, I told her I felt totally lost without her and I could not go on living because I had no reason to. I told her I had failed her because I was a physician but I could not helped her and that her father was right, I was a murderer. Then she came closer to me and asked me to trust her. How could I deny that to her? I nodded and hold her hand. I felt a sensation of warmth and I saw her glowing, the light more and more blinding. I tried to called her but she was gone. Instead of her, I found a concerned Holmes watching anxious at me and when he realized I was alive he did something very strange: he hold my hand and hugged me. I tried to get up but he pushed me back on the cushions and shouted for a physician. I was totally confused and looked at him, silently asking him what was happening. He simply asked me why I didn't ask for his help and begged me not to do that again. I didn't know what to say: I thought he would had not be affected by my absence, the sudden realization of how much he cared for me brought tears in my eyes. I had no intention to hurt him. I could not stand his terrified look and I wanted to reassure him I had learnt my lesson.

"I am sorry!" I managed thought tears. "I miss her so much, I wanted to be with Mary again! I am sorry!"

Holmes hushed me tenderly and assured me everything was going to be alright; I believe I just needed someone to hold on to and I was glad he was there for me. He let me cry for Mary until I felt exhausted. I realized he had cried too. Tears were not men's thing, but in that moment we did not care.

"Take me home, please!" I asked him before the physician's arrival. At this point I was not much aware of my surroundings, I did not notice Lestrade in my sitting room nor other two young officers. The doctor asked me some questions but I am not sure I answered him, I found difficult to stay awake. Every time my eyes shut, I was awaken by gentle hands shaking me out of my sleep. I followed Holmes' voice even if I did not understand his words but I felt reassured by his soft tone. Holmes explained me later, when I was back in Baker Street, that the physician wanted to take me to the hospital so to have a gastric lavage, but he insisted he would had taken care of me at home: his concern was if I would had gone to the hospital everybody would had known about my suicide attempt and he thought it was not good for my reputation as a doctor. I was immensely grateful for his decision, it was bad enough for me to know he knew. I spent the following days recovering from the ordeal; Holmes insisted for me to stay in bed but after two days I was deathly bored so even if still weak and sore I someway made my way to the sitting room almost to collapse on the couch, where I could at least enjoy Holmes' company. I believe he had been shocked by my insane act and he felt genuinely sorry for my loss because he was always extraordinarily kind and gentle to me, he never lost his temper even when I felt too depressed and did not talk to him for days. He simply was there and that was enough. He did not put any pressure on me. He supported me when I asked for his help, even if it was difficult for me to admit I needed it: he perfectly knew how I felt and that I needed my space. Gradually, my melancholy decreased and I became more involved in daily routine. I was still a little out of mind to notice it (I know it because Holmes had the great idea of writing a diary in those days and so gentle to give it to me once I was back to normal) but he detected the first sign of my healing when I asked him the gazette. I had previously lost interest in life in general and it had been almost two months I had not read the newspaper. When I asked him about the consulting room and if there still was the possibility for me to resume my work there, his smile widened and he hugged me with overwhelming joy. I was not out of the woods yet, but I was on the right way. The daily routine at the consulting room helped me a lot and gradually I was involved again in Holmes' investigations. After three months (Holmes explained to me, I honestly did not think it took me so long!) I was back physically and mentally and we went to dinner to celebrate. It was a great night. Holmes fully resumed his activity and his daily routine like before the "accident" but I believe his feeling for me had someway changed, for he was always caring and gentle and protective to me. Maybe because he feared I would hurt myself again, I don't know and obviously I did not ask him. My spirit was back.

A year later, when it was the first anniversary of Mary's death, I experienced again a light depression. Holmes let me have my space but did not allow me to fall in the spiral of losing interest in the world, he insisted for me to go to work and to go out with the dog or simply to eat properly. He offered to come with me to visit her at the graveyard but had the good idea to wait for me in the cab, he knew I would had been embarrassed by his presence and I needed some time alone with Mary. I took her fresh flowers and talked to her for an hour or so, I still missed her very much but I had to go on with my life as she had suggested. When I came back to the waiting cab, I felt relieved and much better. I smiled to Holmes and thanked him for his support. He smiled at me in return and we spent the rest of the day quietly at home, enjoying the warm and the safety of our apartment.

The following year, we performed the same rite.

And so here were are. The paranormal experience with the corpse at the morgue left its mark on me in a strange way. For the first time, I felt I have betrayed Mary, because I got involved with another woman (the fact she was dead did not make me feel less guilty). When I came to visit her, I talked to her and explained the situation, I had always been honest with her and I needed to let her know what had happened. I stayed with her for two hours, until Holmes came to see if I was alright. I was not, but I lied miserably and let him guide me to the cab and home. I felt his worried gaze on me and my only desire was to disappear and to be left alone. But, being a physician and most of all having already experienced the sensation, I recognized my state of my mind as the first signal of the returning depression. I used all my determination and strong will to actually talk to Holmes just to let him know he did not have to worry about me.

I managed to survive, after all, and I was feeling a lot better until a new corpse was found… Another warehouse, another young woman whose physical aspect resembles Mary, another autopsy…

But this time, in the morgue, alone, I saw Mary. She was dead but very much alive, she talked to me and I cried because I could not hold her. She was gentle and caring as usual. I asked her why she came back, that I missed her so much. She explained me she came because I had a work to do.

"What kind of work?"

"You are a gentle man, John, you have always been and always will. I want to ask you to help some lost souls to find the way to their new life, because they are trapped between your world and mine and they need your help. Would you do that for me?"

"Of course, Mary. If you ask me, I will."

She then came closer to me and put her little hands on my eyes and I saw what she wanted me to see. Then she kissed me and the instant later she was gone. I called for her but she did not come back.

**TO BE CONTINUED IN CHAPTER 3...**

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**THIS CHAPTER WAS NECESSARY FOR THE DEVELOPMENT OF THE STORY SO I AM SORRY IF THERE IS NOT MUCH ACTION IN THIS :)**


	3. Chapter 3

**Love kills (chapter 3)**

WATSON'S POV (FROM THE DOCTOR'S DIARY)

When I opened my eyes again, I found myself laying on the hard floor of the morgue with no idea of how I got there. I remembered talking to Mary and I could swear she was there with me. But she was dead, wasn't she? She left me three years ago. Still shocked, I did not know what to do. I am not shy to admit I was scared and confused. After all, I was going through a difficult period, my mind could have imagined what my subconscious thought I might need at the moment. I knew ghost do not exist and that often what people call "paranormal experience" has a perfectly rational explanation if we consider the fact in itself separated from the scary contest. And the Morgue was a scary place, whose dark atmosphere could cause fantasies in a mind fatigued by pain and exhaustion. I was having trouble sleeping since a week or so and I was actually feeling dead on my feet. Was I really rationally thinking to have seen Mary's ghost? Or, more probably, my subconscious was trying to tell me something? What scared me most was that I remembered very well the last time I talked to my dead wife pretending she was alive and not long after that I tried to kill myself. Was I really so sick again? For my own peace of mind I decided not to think about it anymore, I was acting like a fool and if Holmes had discovered the truth (that I was convinced I have been visited by my dead wife in the morgue and that I have been given a mission by her) he would have thought I was going crazy. The last thing I wanted and I needed at the moment was to lose Holmes' respect and loyalty, I had to keep my demons under control. I would do it for him and for myself, I was not going to spiraling down again in the depression that I fought for the last days, I was not going to be weak again, I was not going to be a burden for my friend.

I got on my feet and performed the autopsy with efficiency. I wrote down the report and decided to give it personally to the inspector. I found him in his office with Holmes. I have been avoiding them since a few days so they were surprised to see me, particularly Holmes, who was now watching me with an inquisitor gaze, probably trying to find out how was I handling the situation. I was probably not in my best appeal. However, I blocked out my emotions and actually joined them in the inquiry about the women's murderer. I resumed them my conclusions about the last victim and they seemed satisfied, at least I was glad my work had helped, but when they started to talk about the whole case I lost them because there were many details I did not know: in fact the autopsies on the first three victims were performed by a colleague of mine. Lestrade noticed it and gently explained me the case from the beginning, showing me photographs and evidences. I will not write down all the horrible details I learnt, I think it would be rather useless for the press published many articles about it and if you want you can find all the details on the gazette. As usual, my friend had analyzed all the possible and rationally acceptable solutions in order to catch the man, without success. They were both convinced the murderer was a rich man, whose approach with these unlucky women was caring and gentle. I offered them my personal opinion, that the man was clearly trying to find in these women the mother ( or lover or wife) he lost and that he loved very much and that was the reason for they wore similar clothes and their hair were combed the same way. In fact the second victim wore a wig, because her hair were blonde and not dark as the other four. Lestrade, surprised by my assertion, asked me how did I know about it, because it was a particular they did not talked about to the press and in the photograph the lady did not have it on. Startled by the question and conscious of the attention I have attracted on me, I felt Holmes' gaze reading the expression on my face: I was actually in lack of a response to them, because I did not know how I knew that information. It simply was in my mind.

"Holmes told me" I lied and he did not reply. I was grateful he did not approach the subject until we were on our way home, comfortably seated in a cab.

"So, Watson, can you explain me how did you know that the second victim wore a wig? I am sure I did not tell you." He stated and crossed his arms on his chest, clearly waiting for an exhaustive explanation. A rational explanation. But I did not have any.

"I am sure I heard it from some officer while I was performing the autopsy…"

"That's not possible. Only few people knew about it and I mean me, Lestrade and the physician who worked on her. So, don't lie to me again. Moreover, you're a bad liar, old boy!"

There were times I found Holmes really unnerving and this was one of them. I was tired and I was still confused because of my "experience"; my only wish was to go home and sleep for at least twelve hours and wake up as my usual self I was before: no more visions no more ghosts. But my friend would not had let the matter drop so easily. I was mad at him.

"What do you want from me, Holmes?" I snapped back at him. "I was only trying to help. Besides, who are you to patronize me?"

"I have every right to ask you, Watson. As your friend and as a detective. There is no way you should know about it, unless you are the murderer we are searching for. But I doubt it." Despite the harsh words, his tone remain calm. His concern for me was evident. I thought I owe him an answer at least and I really hoped he would had believed me.

"I don't know how to explain it, Holmes, I just knew it. It was in my mind. I saw her lying on the floor, asleep I thought, but then I knew she was dead. Don't ask me how. I have no rational explanation for this."

Holmes stared at me in silence and I was growing uncomfortable. I thought if I confessed to him everything, maybe I would have felt better. So I did. And as a result, he asked me why I did not tell him before. Even more surprised, I asked him if he really believed me.

"I am sure you did not notice, Watson, but there are many books in my room about men with this kind of ability, men who had almost died and when they returned they had the ability to see things simply touching other people. I believe that when you almost died three years ago and returned, you gained a sixth sense."

"Are you sure Holmes? I thought I was losing my mind!"

"I do believe you. So, do you think you can help us to catch this murderer if I show you the places where we found the first three victims?"

"Of course I can. Do you think we can wait until tomorrow? I am really wasted."

"Tomorrow will be fine. Thank you Watson!"

Finally, that night I slept.

**TO BE CONTINUED IN CHAPTER 4...**

**I know it took me a while to write this new chapter, I hope the waiting was worth it. **

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	4. Chapter 4

**First Crime Scene (chapter 4)**

**Watson's POV**

I re-read my notes about the last days and I am actually impressed at my own behaviour. Did I lose my mind completely? It seems the only possible answer in a Yes! What surprise me most is that I did not recognize the symptoms of my own illness. But let me better explain what happened after Holmes and I talked about my paranormal experience at the morgue.

We returned to our apartment in Baker Street and decided to re-visit the crime scenes of the homicides the following day because I accepted Holmes's offer to help him and Lestrade with my new developed "ability". He was really convinced I was some sort of "Blessed Man" and that my "Gift" was, using his own words, something incredible and amazing and that once I had learnt how to use it I would had become a valuable source for his activity. On my side, if it was true I felt a lot better after having talked to him, now I did not like the picture he was doing of me and my future: as a physician, a man of science, I did not fully believe he was right in his suggestions. I was someway relieved that he believed me when I explained him the ghost thing and the mission and Mary's appearance; but I had no intention to become a freak. I had my work and I was proud of it and I would had never given up on it because of a bad reputations among my colleagues for my "Gift"; I knew perfectly well what they thought about people who declared to have paranormal abilities and my last wish was to be put aside for something I considered an isolated episode, due to my lack of sleep and my temporary psychologically weak condition. That was what my rational mind was shouting in my head. My heart had other ideas: in fact, I also wanted desperately to believe what Holmes had suggested, that after my death experience I had developed a special ability to see things other people could not only by touching things. If I was able to contact dead people, then I surely would had had the possibility to talk to my wife again. I was consumed by this interior fight but so tired I was that I slept better that night. However I was still nervous the next morning. I was not in the mood to talk and we had a silent breakfast, I caught my friend glancing worriedly at me a couple of times but I said nothing. That morning my only wish was to resume my ordinary and normal daily life, without excitement and quite boring but so comforting! But Holmes would had never let the matter drop, the gift thing, so I prepared myself for a long day and prayed I had the strength not to kill him. I remember asking him if he was really convinced about the whole thing, I was not so sure I could be much help, but he insisted I was the key of the case and that without my help they would had never find the killer. My ego was pleased to hear that and, I admit, I felt ridiculously proud of myself. So I let him play his game.

He took me to the place where the first woman was killed: a dirty alley in White Chapel area. This part of the city was very poor and everything (the buildings, the streets and its inhabitants, the air itself) talked of misery and alcohol. I perfectly knew how often these two things were tangled together: people who lived in the streets, without a warm place to return after a long day of hanging around , found alcohol comforting because it gave them the feeling of warm that luckiest people usually found in front of the fire place in their home. Unfortunately, they usually die very young because of this habit, but how to blame them? It was not their fault if they were not son of rich business man. Surely Life was very generous to some people but very cruel to others. I guess this feeling and the need to believe this world can be changed in a better way is the main concept of the popular belief that after the death "The Last will be the First", a way to give hope to people who had nothing but their faith in some divine justice in our second life. But I am wandering. Returning to the real subject of this script, after leaving the safe cab at some point, we immersed ourselves in that crossroads of troubled humanity. Holmes walked easily in a labyrinth of dirty and ugly street, whose aspect was not reassuring, to stop in front of a dark alley which smelled of alcohol and vomit and sex: the first victim was found laying on the ground near some empty barrels, her eyes open in an expression of disbelief. Despite her profession, she wore a new fashionable dress, but that was the only sign of wealthy; she used to live in the street ,as many others unlucky women in this area. I looked at the place and touched the ground where she was found but I saw nothing, I mean I did not have any flashback. Holmes was looking at me anxiously and that made me uncomfortable.

"We are wasting our time, Holmes! I can't help you! The fact that I had an hallucination yesterday because I could not get any sleep in these days and I was exhausted and still shocked by the last victim's discover doesn't make me a clairvoyant!" I declared angrily.

My friend did not say anything , but asked me to try a little harder and to have a better look at the place. I tried to persuade him he was wrong about me, but he took me by the elbow and guided me to the far end of the alley, far from the street nearby and from other people. When he put his hands on mine something happened: another hallucination, I guess. I remember seeing Holmes talking to me but I could not hear him, my perception of sounds was muffled and distorted. Then it was like I was spiraling down in a hole, fragments of memories flashing in my head, I heard a woman laughing and talking to a child and the child laughed too. But then she was gone and the child was crying and alone. And I felt so sad! I had the vision of a beautiful garden with two big stone Lyons statues and the following second I saw someone walking in the dirty street of White Chapel, I felt his rage and desperation and the need to kill. Last thing I saw was this woman (the first victim) talking to the man and accepting his gifts before he killed her. I found myself knelt down on the dirty pavement, my hands on the wet cold stones.

"She was killed here, the killer strangled her to death. When she fell, he took her in his arms and left her body at the end of the alley. He gave her a kiss on the lips. He was sorry for her, he loved her but she shouldn't had betrayed his trust. That's why he had to kill her. He had no other choice." I explained to my friend, who had knelt beside me. "Don't ask me how I know it, Holmes, I feel stupid enough!" I added, standing up again. He didn't ask but took me to the second crime scene!

**TO BE CONTINUED IN PART 5**

**I HOPE THIS CHAPTER IS GOOD, I AM TRYING MY BEST TO MAKE THIS STORY FRESH AND NOT TOO OBVIOUS. IT TOOK ME A LONG TIME TO FIND THE INSPIRATION TO CONTINUE, SORRY FOR THAT!**

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	5. Chapter 5

**Love Kills (chapter 5)**

**WATSON'S POV**

The cab took us to the second crime scene, this time in another very poor area near the river. Again, the sensation I had seeing this part of the city was pity and compassion for people who lived and worked there, in its dirty streets and miserable buildings; when we left our carriage (which talked of wealthy and money!) we were immediately followed by many children offering us their services or simply begging for some money. At the umpteenth time, I was going to give them something but Holmes stopped me, saying if I would had given only one of them just one coin they would had followed us the all day. I found his objection very disrespectful towards them but very typical of him and besides, he was right! Even if I would had given them all my substances, I could not change their life because they were just too many! I felt, anyway, someway bad for my lack of sensibility and, as usual, my friend noticed it. His concern for my well being had become a constant in the last years; I was used to it and usually did not notice it, sometimes I felt excessively lucky to have someone who cared for me that way and I guess most of the times I did not give it the right importance, pretending it was natural between two close friend to take care of each other. But we are speaking of Sherlock Holmes and when it turns to him, nothing is obvious. For this reason his friendship, in the way it had developed in the last three years, had gained a great value for me. He put his hand on my shoulder and gently invited me to follow him. I was introduced in a small building, whose exterior was better than its interior: bare walls, half ruined roof, puddles of mud on what remained of the once tiled pavement, garbage everywhere; what surprised me most was the smell: a mixture of rotten fish and smoke. I could not avoid to put a hand on my mouth and nose, to block out the horrible stench. There was a little door on the right wall; we entered it and found ourselves in a little room with a little bed and some old but decent furniture, here the floor was clean and on the left wall there was also a little window with a yellowish curtain decorated with flowers. All considering, this room was in better shape than the rest of the house. Someone did his best to make it comfortable. I still could detect signs of moral decay, anyway.

"The second victim was found here, on the bed, strangled. There was no sign on fight, everything was in order: it seemed the woman knew the killer and let him enter the room." Holmes explained. "Feel free to touch what you want, or if you want to sit on the bed…"

Surprised by his arguments I felt the need to laugh at how seriously he was taking the thing. The man was really convinced I had a "power" and I could control it. Instead of laughing, anyway, I nodded hoping to appear convincing. I did as he suggested, I touched the few objects that were in the room and sat on the bed but nothing happened. I waited for some minutes, not knowing if I really wanted to see something.

"What do you _feel_, Watson? Do you _see_ something?" Holmes asked me after a while.

"I feel confused and totally lost, Holmes! I know what you believe but don't you think you could be wrong? I mean you told me about all the details of this case, you showed me photos and I personally performed the autopsy on the last two victims, don't you think all these information could alter my "visions"? Besides, I did not have any here." _Please, Holmes, don't say anything. I feel a useless pathetic little bundle of nerves, I don't need your pity! Stop this act and be yourself!_

As if he had sensed my discomfort, he sat on the bed too but did not reply. I thought I was going crazy! After what seemed an eternity, he stood up and pat me on the shoulder, signaling the end of the games. In that moment, I felt a shiver running down my spine and then again I lost conscience of space and time, my mind assaulted by images, sounds and again the intense sensation of fury. I saw a blond woman in the room with a man, talking and dancing, then the man gave her something little and brilliant, a pendant attached to a thin gold necklace, her eyes sparkling with joy. When the man went away, the woman carefully removed the new gift and revealed a secret cubby in the wall near the head of the bed, hidden by a false panel of wood, where she put it. She removed her wig also and went away. Then the scene changed. I felt someone calling me, probably Holmes, my heart was pounding fiercely in my chest and in my ears, but I could not stop to see things. I saw the two together again, this time the man was angry but I could not hear his words, the woman tried to calm him but he became furious and attached her, his hands on her neck, his eyes almost totally black from rage. The room exploded in sounds and colors, and I felt a sharp pain on my face, as if someone had slap me to wake me. Holmes! I finally could hear him and I realized I was on the floor. Ashamed, I tried to get up only to be assaulted by a wave of dizziness and I could not find my voice. At the moment, the floor was the most appetizing perspective, so I waited until the weakness had gone and with Holmes' help, I was on my feet again. Blindly, I reached for the wall where I had seen the woman removing the false panel but I could not find the cubby, there surely was some kind of mechanism to open it but I could not think straight at the moment and I did not find it.

"Watson, what are you searching for?" Holmes asked me, noticing my growing frustration. I don't know if I heard him, I did not bother to answer him and I kept searching furiously. I wanted to know if what I had seen was the truth or I had only imagined it. Not being able to succeed in that task was unnerving. Again my friend asked me to explain him.

"There is a false panel in the wall, I just can't find the mechanism to open it!". He did not ask me how I knew it, the fool had faith in me!

"Let me help you" and he immediately found the way to open it. We both hold our breath until we did not see what was hidden in the cubby: a couple of bottles of wine and a golden necklace with a nice pendant. I felt immensely relieved and proud of myself: so it was true, I really had the "gift"! Holmes was looking at me with a huge smile on his face, he actually hugged me but quickly resumed his cool professional behaviour.

"I knew you could do it, Watson! I am proud of you. Do you feel up to see the third crime scene? These experiences usually are very tiring, so I understand if you want to…" I did not let him finish and assured him I was perfectly alright. Truth was I felt lightheaded and a little nauseous, but if I had managed to follow him for another couple of hours then I would be free from this crazy thing! He did not seemed too convinced, but did not insist on the argument.

"If you are sure, Watson! You can tell me your vision in the cab while we reach the next place. Can we go, now?" he asked but did not wait for my answer. He jumped in the carriage. I wish I had his enthusiasm and energy.

...

TO BE CONTINUED IN PART 6...


	6. Chapter 6

**LOVE KILLS (Chapter 6)**

HOLMES' POV

I have been thinking about my attitude towards Watson in the last years and find out my feelings for this great friend had changed in a way I would have never expected. His marriage affected me in a horrible way: if it is true I understood his need to have a family, I felt someway betrayed for his choice to leave our apartment and start a new life with Mary. At the beginning I tried to persuade him to renounce and I know for certain my behaviour affected him badly, he was torn between the new domestic dimension of life with his future wife, which would have been quiet and comforting, and our daily routine made of chasing criminals all around London in the middle of the night, the fights and the thrill of excitement that we always felt in these occasions. I could never imagine this life without him or with another man, we knew each other so well it was impossible for me to think to have a similar relationship with someone other. I believe he someway felt the same, but at the end he made his choice and I honestly did not blame him: he had every right to do what he wanted and thought to be the best for him. I agreed to be his best man and guided him through the most important day of his life, I really felt proud of him, but I left immediately after the ceremony: I could not stand the situation anymore. I was hurting, emotionally, and I needed a quiet place to lick my wounds. Unfortunately, we could not be separated for long, for I had to protect the new couple from the most dangerous criminal I have ever met in my life, Professor Moriarty. We (Watson and I) ended up to spent his and Mary's honeymoon together as usual, while his wife was at my brother's mansion. After my forced disappearance, Watson and Mary lived together in the new house Watson had bought: they had a quiet life, they were happy even if they were not blessed with a child. I think this fact affected both badly. I choose not to return to London and not to let them know I was alive, for their own security, but I always took information about my friend and followed his carrier through the newspapers and in other unofficial ways. When I heard about Mary's illness, I decided to come back, to offer Watson and his wife some comfort: after a first moment of surprise, they both were happy to have myself back in their life. I helped him the way I could and I actually spent a lot of time with his wife, especially in her last days, when she was confined to bed and her days were long and painful. I took her company. She talked to me about her life before the marriage with John and after it and asked me about our adventures; I developed a great opinion of this woman, whom I discovered had a brilliant mind and was actually very clever. She was glad I was with her in her last days, she was afraid of dying but never said it, nor she admitted she was in pain, except for when the pain was unbearable: in these rare occasions she let me administer her some morphine, but otherwise she was very brave. Her only desire was not to make John suffer or feel guilty for her illness, she insisted for him to work at his office until the very last days, so I offered for taking her company; a very sad thing happened then: we became friends, but it was too late. The day she died John was away visiting patients as usual, I asked her many times if she wanted me to call him but she refused; instead she saved her last strength to greet him that evening, actually comforting him. Watson did not fully comprehended what had happened, he hold her in his arms and did not let go until I forced him. I expected him to cry for her, but he did not. I helped him to arrange things for the funeral then I let him his space, knowing he only needed time at the moment. Although he rarely left his home the following weeks, I was not particularly worried about him. John had always had moments in which he needed to be alone, so I just went on with my life, expecting him to appear at my door when he would had been ready to re-start with his life. When I received the information that he had not left his house for some days and nobody had seen him around and his home was all closed, I decided to force the situation; I found him unconscious, I realized I was going to lose him and I pray God to help me, to not let him die. When he opened his eyes and I realized I had been given another possibility, I promised I would had taken care of him for the rest of my life and I did: I took him home, in our apartment in Baker Street, I helped him to come out of the severe depression that held him. The day he asked me if he still had the possibility to resume his work at his office, I felt as the big burden I carried on my shoulders had been lifted and I could finally breath fresh air: finally my friend was back. Of course, I never let him out of my sight and I was always a little concerned about him, but gradually our life came back to his normality.

Even if I had already seen him a little blue in the period of the year when his wife had died, I did not pay attention to his strange attitude in these previous days: as a matter of fact, Mary died three years ago and I was convinced he had gone over it. Truth is I was too involved in the case to notice his growing uneasiness. When he confessed me his "paranormal" experiences at the morgue, I felt ashamed at my own blindness but thrilled at the same time because I was convinced he had developed a "power" - or he had been given a "gift"- that could be very useful to solve the case I was working on at the moment; at the same time I had the possibility to prove a theory: that people who had nearly died and came back often developed a sixth sense, the power to see things trough the objects and personal effects of other people. How selfish and how typical of myself! I asked him to help me with the case and the poor man accepted. As confused as he was, he gave me many useful information that I used to track down the killer and put him behind bars, but I forgot about his well being: after the second crime scene I could swear he was tired, but he hung on. We visited the other places were the victims were found and he actually had visions in each of these places. But these experiences left him exhausted and I had to carry him home where he collapsed on the couch; I made him comfortable and covered him with a blanket, then I left him alone - because Mrs. Hudson was away - and headed to Scotland Yard where I was anxious to give Lestrade the new information I had (Watson's courtesy).

When I came back several hours later, I expected him to be asleep where I left him, but he was not there. I immediately felt guilty for having left him alone in his weakened state and I blame myself for my lack of thoughts. I imagined my poor friend hurting and wounded, in a pool of blood somewhere. What if I could not find him? The blanket was on the floor and the little table near the couch was knocked over with the things that were on it. Watson's cane was on the floor. Surely he was not able to walk very far without it! Several objects had been crashed to the floor, and there were wet footprints on the floor going to my bedroom. I prayed for Watson to be alright, because if something had happened to him then it would had been entirely my fault! I held my breath and carefully opened my bedroom's door…

**TO BE CONTINUED IN CHAPTER 7...**

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	7. Chapter 7

_To LondonFan__: I am happy you liked the first 6 chapters, I think you should be satisfied with the little time I let you wait for this final one. And, by the way, I am not English too so forgive me if there are any grammar mistakes._

_To 42Mulder__: I swear this is the last chapter, no more coming. I don't like cliffhangers too, but it seems I don't have a choice, my story are always too long… Sorry for that!_

_To Eiffel-FL__: thank you for your reviews, I appreciate them very much! You are always too kind! I am looking forward to read a story of yours! _

_To Anonimous__: I am glad you liked my story! Thank you for your comment._

**Love kills (chapter 7)**

HOLMES' POV

Holding my breath, I opened the door to my bedroom expecting to find my friend in need, maybe hurting; only the thought was enough to drive me crazy, so I prayed God for Watson to be (at least) still alive. In the dim light, for the curtains in the room were half closed, I saw him laying sprawled on his back on my bed, his head turned on his right side so I could not see his face; I approached him carefully and observed with great relief that he was breathing, slowly but regularly, his chest rising and falling under the shirt he was wearing since the previous day. Satisfied and reassured by that, I proceeded with my examination to find none of those signs of violence or wounds I feared of, but a little contented smile on his pale, unshaven face: eyes closed, his expression was one of relax like I had never seen on him for a long time. He was asleep. I tried to wake him up but I bet he was simply too exhausted, for he didn't even stir at my touch. After having checked him carefully for a second time, to detect any wounds, I looked around in the room but everything was alright, exactly the way I left it the previous morning. No signs of intruders. Nothing. Just those wet footprints which I could not find a reason for: they stopped near the bed where Watson was. I decided the mystery could had waited , my priority was to make the doctor comfortable because if he had slept in that position for long he surely would had woken up in pain; so I undressed him and put him to sleep properly in my bed under my warmer comforter. That accomplished, I took his dirty clothes away and doing so I realized his socks were wet. I went in the sitting room to see if my instinct was right and I smiled, chuckling to myself: on the floor, near the small table, there was the now empty carafe that I personally had placed there with a glass for Watson, in case he would had woken up thirsty; it was evident that the doctor had woken up at some point while I was away and decided to sleep in my room, but still weak from the ordeal, he had dropped his cane and knocked the table over, the carafe with the water had spilled its content on the floor wetting his socks. On his way to my bedroom he had left the mysterious footprints on the floor; ha had probably swayed more than once and tried to steady himself holding on the furniture and the objects on them, crashing them to the floor, before reaching his goal and collapsing on my bed. That explained everything. I guess I did not understood it before because I was too worried for his well being to notice it and my mind too occupied to blame myself for my absence to work as usual.

Watson slept for nearly two days, I spent this time clearing up the mess in the sitting room, watching him, playing my violin and finally getting some sleep myself, but never leaving his bedside. When he woke up, he was confused because he did not remember having moved in my bedroom, but quickly recovered: he asked me about the investigation and I announced him proudly that with his information I was able to catch the murderer. He was very interested with all the details and relieved this case was over. I would had liked to discuss with him about his "faculty" but I guess he was not in the mood, so I let the matter drop. I waited until he had completely recovered before pushing him on that subject, then we had a long conversation; he explained me that he was scared by this "gift" he had been given but accepted to learn to use it following my advices so to help me if I needed for any cases, but on one condition: his "method" of investigation should had remained a secret for the rest of the world, he did not want to be considered a freak nor to be known for his paranormal faculty among his colleagues; I tried to persuade him there was nothing wrong with it but he was firm in his ideas and made me swear I would had not told anyone about him. We had our deal and I did not betrayed him. He really helped me more than once. Obviously, he did not have visions every time but when it happened, I guided him and taught him how to control them: at the end, he accepted his fate.

I think this secret we now share is something that makes our relationship very special and very precious to me: neither of us could get along without each other, now more than ever.

WATSON'S POV

The events that followed the second crime scene are very confused in my mind, I believe Holmes had to physically carry me home at the end because I was totally exhausted. I had visions and I discovered that they had drained all my energies. I don't know how, but I managed to tell him about what I saw. Then everything is blurred and I can't recall the journey home nor the way I went to sleep in Holmes' bed, I guess I was sleepwalking. But when I finally woke up, he was there holding my hand and in that moment I knew everything was going to be alright: I was feeling a lot better, I was rested and more important I was in peace with myself.

I don't know if my decision to follow Holmes' guide with the faculty I had developed was a consequence of the fact that they caught the murderer mostly because of my visions, but I made clear with him that I did not want any kind of advertising, I would had willingly helped him but no one should had to know about me. I knew in the back of my mind that Mary would had agreed with me. And about Mary: I no longer saw her, I mean I did not have any other visions but sometimes I dream of her; you can call it "paranormal", I think I am simply human, a devoted husband who grieves his wife, I still miss her very much, but I know my time has not come yet. So I wait for the day when we will be reunited. In the while, I am so lucky to have a great friend beside me and this is a very good reason to live, because he is worth it.

This following is the only part of this diary I will report on my article: the murderer was caught in his own place in the richest area of London; when he was just a boy, he explained, his mother died leaving him alone with a rude father, her loss caused him to grow fond of the women his father used to spent his time with; this man did not want to be married again, he did not want to be bothered by another woman like his wife did, so he searched the company of streetwalkers. These women usually lasted no more than one or two months, because the man had a good position in society and he did not want to risk to be seen with one of them. These women used to meet his father in his own mansion and they always felt sympathy for him, who was just a little boy, scared and blue. When he became a man, he himself searched the company of the type of woman his father had in his life; he bought them clothes and gifts and was very gentle. But they always betrayed him, going with other men. That was something he could not accept so he had to kill them, even if he loved them all.

I know I should not, but I feel compassion for this man, because, as I said before, he became a criminal because they made him.

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